


Gifts and Affection

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Birthday Presents, Brad POV, Graduate School, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-01
Updated: 2009-11-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obviously all the Guinness had pickled his brain. Fucking Royal Marines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts and Affection

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written for [](http://bijoux.livejournal.com/profile)[**bijoux**](http://bijoux.livejournal.com/) on her birthday. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/408084.html).

This was really fucking stupid. Stupid and sentimental. Brad didn't _do_ sentimental. Yet here he was, standing outside Nate's place on a frigid autumn day, bakery box in hand, cursing his nonexistent sentimentality. 

Obviously all the Guinness had pickled his brain. Fucking Royal Marines.

"Brad?"

Christ, he couldn't win. He knew that voice. It got him through Iraq, got into his head, and wouldn't fucking leave. Sometimes he wished it would. Life would be simpler then.

Brad turned and half-smiled at Nate as he approached. His cheeks were red from the wind, but otherwise he looked exactly like the preppy Ivy Leaguer he was: slacks, green button-down, jacket, gay-ass messenger bag. They should put him in brochures. 'Come to Harvard and spend your days staring at this.' He'd heard worse offers. 

Nate slowed as he reached Brad, blinking, as if Brad's presence were some kind of acid-induced hallucination.

Grad school was treating him well, then. 

"Surprise," Brad said mildly, lacing his words with mockery. At himself.

"What—'surprise?' You fly three thousand miles and that's what you say?" Nate asked, incredulous. He shook his head and pulled Brad into a hug, unfair full-body press, thumping him hard on the back. Brad made sure not to drop the box, squeezed Nate back lightly, just once. Nate pulled away to meet his eyes. "I thought you were off showing the Brits how it's done." His smile wasn't unexpected, but it still made something in Brad's stomach twist.

"Did that. After two weeks I got bored." 

Nate flashed a quick grin and tugged on Brad's jacket, pulling him toward his apartment and away from the biting wind. Brad followed automatically; of course he did. "Come on. I can't promise a respite from boredom, but at least I won't leave you out in the cold." 

"Then you're already one up on our former colonial overlords."

"Making friends, are you?"

"Special relationship my ass," Brad grumbled. 

Nate chuckled and passed through the outer door. Brad trailed after—into his building, up the narrow flight of stairs. It was darker than he expected, cramped. The East Coast always made him feel huge, ungainly, like he didn't belong in these sardine cans everyone tucked themselves into. It didn't remind him of too-small Humvees, not really, but it didn't feel like home. California wasn't like this—there it was all bright, wide open spaces and room to breathe. For just a moment, at the top of the steps, Brad acutely missed its inviting sprawl.

Nate stopped in front of a door and looked back at him. His eyes radiated warmth. Something eased in Brad's chest.

"So you decided to go AWOL and trade in England for New England, huh?" Nate's keys jangled as he turned the lock; he had a USMC keychain. He opened the door wide and Brad followed him in. He dropped his duffel beside the door as Nate tossed his keys onto a side table. The globe and anchor shined dully. Nate flipped on the lights, toed off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket.

"New England has you," Brad said absently, turning his focus to the rest of the apartment—neat but for the books scattered around, bike leaning against a wall, cards propped by the phone. Then he mentally replayed his words. Shit, that could be interpreted...exactly right. "And it's not every day my trusty LT has a birthday." He focused on Nate again, solemnly handing over the bakery box.

Nate took it, zeroing in on the little logo at the corner of the box. "This is my favorite bakery," he said, hushed. After a moment he looked up at Brad, green eyes alight.

"You better watch that, sir. You don't have twenty mile ruck marches to burn off pastries three times a week."

"How in the world—" Nate stopped and frowned. Brad could actually _see_ his mind making connections. "You hacked into my credit card account?" A conclusion and a question at the same time. And he wasn't even pissed. More...fond.

Brad didn't dwell on that.

"I did no such thing. That'd be a crime. I'd do many things for you, sir, but going to prison isn't one of them."

Nate regarded him steadily, eyebrow quirked in question.

"I'm hardly to blame if your account password is that easy to guess."

The smile started in his eyes, then blossomed in curling lips and a breathed-out laugh. Brad had the uncomfortable feeling he was staring. Little bit.

Fuck, he was in so much trouble. It wasn't the first time he'd had that thought.

Brad cleared his throat. "But that white-sugar-and-white-flour-rich slab of buttery delight isn't all." He went to his duffel and found the bottle tucked inside, pausing for a beat to clear his thoughts. Nate moved around the kitchen, taking out the cake, plates, silverware.

It was all very...domestic.

Brad swallowed that thought down and stood, presenting the bottle, matter-of-fact.

Nate grinned at the scotch as he took it. "You brought me booze and birthday cake." That fond tone was back, this time accompanied by the familiar warmth in his eyes. Brad looked at Nate in his too-green shirt with his too-green eyes, flushed and tousled and so fucking _pretty_. 

Really fucking stupid to come here. One for the books. 

"Let's be accurate, sir. I brought you spectacular booze and your _favorite_ birthday cake."

"However shall I repay you?" Nate asked, dry.

There were endless ways...though really only one. But Brad wasn't going there. 

So he tsked. "It's your birthday—the one day a year where people shower you with gifts and affection and you're socially required to let them. Don't go all Ivy League liberal WASP on me and turn it into a guilt-trip."

"God forbid." He wagged the bottle of scotch. "I see my gifts; where's my fuckin' affection, Colbert?"

Jesus, didn't he wish. He'd _show_ Nate affection. 

Instead he shook his head once. "Have to depend on your friends and fans for that, sir. I've got ice water in my veins. You may have heard."

Nate snorted. His look called bullshit as clearly as if he said it aloud.

Good to know they could still read each other. Or perhaps not, given some of Brad's thoughts...

"Speaking of, are you expecting them soon? Do we need to hide the good china? More importantly, the scotch?"

Nate's smile went a bit too bright. "Nah, I'm keeping it low-key. You want pizza?" He turned away and opened a handy drawer full of multicolored flyers for fast food joints. Of course he'd have that organized.

But Brad was better at deciphering Nate than anyone and he hadn't even tried for subtlety with that dodge.

"Did you tell anyone it's your birthday?" Brad asked, watching him carefully.

Nate shrugged—which meant he hadn't—and sifted through the flyers, like they weren't in alphabetical order. "It's nothing special."

Brad pushed Nate's hand flat in the drawer, stilling his movement.

Nate looked up at him, lips parted. 

"I know you didn't mean to imply that your birthday is an unimportant event, sir, because that would be retarded. And it'd be an epic injustice if you made it through four years of the Marine Corps compos mentis only to let the Ivy League rob you of your sense." 

Nate watched him steadily. His hand was warm under Brad's fingers. He didn't move to get away. "I can assure you, Brad, my senses are intact."

Brad gave in to his ironic smile. "I am assured of this." Nate's eyes dropped to his mouth. 

Right, he needed to not be touching Nate or smiling at him or this close to him because he felt _familiar_ to Brad—even though he _wasn't_ , dammit—and that was all kinds of bad for Brad's self control.

Brad pulled his hand back—

Only to find his wrist seized, Nate's grip implacable. He flicked his eyes down, then back up to Nate just as Nate hauled him close—heat pouring off him, body moving subtly against Brad's, so damn _real_. "Nate—"

Nate made a pleased sound and dipped his head; Brad's dick promptly got interested in the proceedings. "You brought me birthday cake," Nate said gruffly, mouth against Brad's jaw.

Fucking hell. "Favorite birthday cake," Brad corrected, voice a little faint.

Nate bit, scraping his teeth lightly down Brad's neck. Fuck, that was it, subtlety was pretty well obliterated with that one, no reason he shouldn't turn his head and—

Nate's hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him down into a heady, open-mouthed kiss. Nate thrust his tongue _in_ , tangled it with Brad's, slick little flicks driving Brad to distraction. The hand on his neck anchored him, grip on his wrist held him in place as Nate pressed all up against him, pinning him to the partition that divided the kitchen from living room. 

Brad sank into the kiss, into the way Nate crushed their mouths together, the way Nate _wanted_. The _fact_ of Nate's wanting. Who the hell knew? Brad fucking well missed something and he'd thought he had Nate pegged. But the way Nate kissed him, that wasn't a birthday-cake-spawned revelation. It wasn't spontaneous. There was longing here. 

Brad returned it. He sucked on Nate's tongue like he'd wanted it for _years_. His hand trapped between them felt the frantic beat of Nate's heart. His other hand caught Nate's hip and stole underneath his shirt, finding a hot little strip of skin there to stroke. 

Nate made a helpless sound—God, his _sounds—_ and shifted, letting Brad feel the hard line of his cock. Brad bucked against him, breaking the kiss in a gasp. Nate's mouth trailed down his chin as he ground against Brad and _fuck_.

"Fuck," Brad hissed, rocking into him.

"Bedroom," Nate ordered—and Christ, if he'd passed along retarded Encino Man orders in _that_ voice, Brad would've bent over and felt blessed for the privilege.

"Bedroom?" Brad echoed.

Nate curled a hand around Brad's cock and squeezed. "I want you naked and spread out on my bed," Nate confessed thickly, licking his way to Brad's ear. 

Brad wanted to _be_ naked and spread out on his bed. Nice when things worked out like that.

"It's good to have goals," he breathed, mouth dry.

Nate bit his earlobe. Hard. Brad's cock jerked and an unclassifiable sound escaped from his throat. Nate's hand squeezed his cock again and it almost brought Brad to his knees, it was so good. "I'll take my fucking affection now, thank you."

He'd bitch about the Ivy League sense of entitlement, but Nate already had his belt undone. "Happy birthday, indeed," he mumbled, turning his head to taste Nate's laugh. 

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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